


Snowstorm

by Melimelo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate season 8, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love, Self-Esteem Issues, Snowed In, Sort Of, StarkPack, Stupid Meddling, Warging, book!canon for some things, hints at Political Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-25 23:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16208387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melimelo/pseuds/Melimelo
Summary: The calm before the storms…Everybody relished in the quiet happiness of the moment, for they knew it wouldn’t last long. The storm was coming, and the dead within it.The common goal was: fight the enemy, kill the Night King, save humanity. Simple, clear, evident. They had never been in a better position to succeed: Jon had accomplished his mission and brought two full-grown dragons and more soldiers than the North could have ever supplied. He should be proud of that.Except he wasn’t. Because, since he left everything he’s ever dreamt of in Sansa’s good hands, he didn’t do a single thing he was proud of. And the newly found lies about himself will only create other storms, for which dragons and soldiers and Targaryen queen won’t be of any help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Same old, same old; nothing belongs to me and English isn’t my first language so sorry for any mistakes.
> 
> I don’t really know how to describe Jon in this chapter, so let’s say it’s a post resurrection Jon. He is perhaps a bit darker than the show portrayed him (except in a few scenes, well known by everybody here, if you catch my meaning) though we don’t really know what’s going on in his head so… it could be canon!
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the story!

“I completely… understand, my lord,” lord Manderly uttered the words with such a grimace that, had Jon still be completely oblivious to the prevailing displeasure addressed at him by lords and common folk and spirits and statues alike, that in itself would have been enough to open his eyes to it. Angered, both at himself for letting it attain him and at everybody else for simply not seeing, he quickened his steps, practically forcing the plump lord to run to try and keep up with his Warden. “But winter is here, and the Lady Stark had done the long-tiring work of bringing enough within the walls of Winterfell and ensuring everybody would have access to it.”

Were he alone, he would have followed his instincts and answered with an annoyed growl, a worthy retort for this remark, but since the corridors were not quite empty yet he had to swallow it down. I know, he wanted to say then, scream it even, for the whole world to hear. I know that Sansa – smart Sansa, kind Sansa, sweet Sansa – is the reason we’ll survive the winter, should we live through it. I know we need the food, I know people will starve if I continue this sentence – and there’s nothing I want less. But it wasn’t about what he wanted – never anything had ever been, if he was honest – it was about the survival of humanity.

And so, he willed himself to speak the words one more time – one last time – trying to erase every bit of emotion in his voice, the way he had mastered during those moons far from home. “Two goats, my lord. An Unsullied is waiting at the North Gate to bring them to the dragons. If you go see through it now, perhaps you’ll be able to join your tent before that storm gets worse.”

He could see the old lord’s lip tremble under his whiskers, and his cheeks take a dark tone of red. “Two goats would nourish an entire family for a fortnight! To waste them in such a way during the worse winter anyone has ever known is abhorrent. To lay to waste all the good work Lady Stark did in your absence is…”

That was the last straw. Jon halted suddenly but held his ground when lord Manderly stumbled to him, his outstretched arm the only thing preventing the other man from falling over his own feet. “Lady Stark and I appreciate your concerns and, rest assured that, the both of us have agreed that feeding the dragons was one of the top priorities for the time being, a priority that should be shared by everyone here.” He stopped, briefly enjoying the understanding terror that passed through the man’s blue eyes. Taking a breath, Jon concluded more softly, “We’d like you to go to the kitchens and ask for those goats.”

He didn’t know if it was the reasonable argument he issued of the importance of the feeding of the dragons or the fact that this order had lady Stark’s approval, but the man didn’t utter anything else and scurried in the opposite direction.

Jon’s shoulders sagged a little after a serving girl rushed past him, the turmoil of the last few hours starting to take its toll on him. His day had started early in the morning, he’d been awake before the sun rose, heart thrumming and hands clammy at the thought of seeing Arya and Bran and Sansa again, after so long apart. The joy he had felt, a few hours before midday, at seeing Bran alive, Arya running to him and Sansa smiling had been quickly squashed when his brother invited him to his room before the lunch and threw Jon’s whole world out of its axis with a few words. Then, at lunch, the insistent glaring and barely concealed irritation started appearing from all corners of the Great Hall and spread during the afternoon to everywhere Jon stepped a foot in.

Only Sansa had come to his help, by reminding the lords of the bigger concern, and quieting the most recalcitrant ones with one look. She had looked so regal, sitting at the great table, the afternoon sun making her hair shine brighter than fire; he would have happily spent the whole afternoon looking at her as the northerners told him about what happened during his prolonged stay in the South. The last of Manderly’s men had arrived, the training of the women and children was going well, Baelish had been judged and executed and the food stocks were full. His hand had flown to hers then, and he had stopped himself before it was too late and instead offered her a simple smile, one he hoped conveyed everything he thought about her while hiding the most important part, as always.

But she had only answered him with a tired smile, and that had been the last time he saw her of the day. He could feel the tiredness in his eyes, too, but there was no time for him to sleep. He wouldn’t be able to, even if he wished to. He needed to talk to her first, and privately if possible.  
What Bran had told him on the morning threatened to come at the forefront of his mind, and Jon knew nothing good could come out of this.

He needed to find food for her too, to make up for the goats, a part at the back of his mind supplied. Right now, snow was falling too heavily, and the night would be upon them soon, but on the morrow… He would wake up early and go hunting for a rabbit or perhaps even a hare, with luck. He knew that she probably hadn’t ate more than bread and stew and chicken for the past moons, and that the occasional venison was a meager improvement. He would surprise her with a roasted hare and peas and onions for her fast, he decided, and then they would be able to break it together and talk.

“Jon!” An impatient voice brought him back to reality, and he opened the eyes he did not remember having closed. The dragon queen stood before him, her eyes soft and joyous, making his throat burn and his insides twist in unpleasant ways. “We were looking for you, we didn’t have time to finish the tour of the castle this morning,” she reminded him with, as always, an undertone of warning in her voice. She hadn’t liked that he had preferred leaving her for Bran, and the way she was currently eyeing his arm did not leave what she wanted open to interpretation.

He pulled his lips up in a half-smile, offering her his arm and starting to walk to the stairs to continue where they left off. He would show her one or two corridors, the tapestry of the Godswood and his study, and perhaps she will be satisfied, then. He did his best to ignore Tyrion Lannister, who struggled to keep up in the stairs, as his feet guided her this and that way.

“How do you find the North, Your Grace?” The Hand of the Queen asked, completely ignoring Jon in return.

“It’s a pity Jorah didn’t tell me more about the beauty of the North, I would have liked to see it sooner. The white trees and the white lands, everything so white, so pure… it is all so beautiful.”

Jon felt a shiver move through his arms and chest, even beneath his furs and leather. He kept quiet, took care of not letting his eyes linger too long on her or else she would think he wanted to be alone – he had made that mistake three days ago, he wouldn’t make it twice – hoping she would continue talking on her own. He didn’t mind her talking, especially not if it were to say kind things to his home.

Perhaps she would. Perhaps once the Great War was over and she was safely home, with him and their family and their friends, she would find again some of the beauty she had enjoyed so much as a child. Perhaps, one day, he could walk by a room and hear her laugh and sing.

No, he chided himself, not her. The dragon queen. A Targaryen’s place isn’t in the North.

Tyrion snorted lightly. “The landscape might be pretty enough, I guess, but it is nothing compared to the gardens of the Red Keep on a summer evening. The Northern people, however, aren’t known to be pleasant or welcoming.”

Perhaps that’s because whenever a southerner comes here, they come with their pompous demeanor, bring only destruction and leave as soon as they can. He wouldn’t utter such words aloud in his present company but thinking them now did not hurt anybody.

Daenerys turned to him, preventing him from opening the door to his study and making his hand inadvertently brush her waist. Jon tensed and resisted throwing a look over his shoulder to ensure that no one witnessed that. He was well-aware how fast rumors could happen in the castle, cut off from the exterior world at least for the night, and he had no want of anyone to know that he had lain with the dragon queen while he was away. And with what Bran had said…

“The people are alike their ruler, they will see me for who I am, and they will love me, just like you do,” his- the queen susurrated, her mouth moving in a knowing smile and her eyes pleased by the way he clenched the hand that touched her. “You northerners must be convinced, I can see. It’s alright. I am impatient to know them, especially your little sister, Arya. We are quite alike, from what I’ve seen today.” She still hadn’t moved from the threshold, and so Jon lead her away, to the Great Hall or her assigned room.

A quick glance outside reminded him that the night did fall more quickly in the North, and that he needed to find Sansa before she’d retreat in her chamber.

Unfortunately, Daenerys looked at him in a way he was starting to be well-acquainted to and he suppressed a sigh. He would need again to think up an excuse as to why he won’t share her bed for the night, something he was rapidly growing weary of. It was usually an awkward moment for every party involved – and Jon still thought about the evening, when he had been discussing with Davos and had received the summoning, with embarrassment. The presence of Tyrion promised its own brand of awkwardness.

However, as the queen claimed she did not feel tired at all, even as he reminded her of the oncoming tasks of the morrow, they passed before Robb’s former chamber without stopping.

He felt the queen’s breath on his cheek, felt her hand return his previous unintended caress, the combined effect with the ale he drank that afternoon making his head spin, and spin, and spin. He wished someone would appear and end his plight, he wished Tyrion would intervene instead of scowling at him, he wished… But it was nothing.

“Your Grace…”

He saw her smile, he saw her eyes light up. “I know,” she said. “I’ll send Missandei to you. I’ll think of a pretense. You have my heart,” she whispered the last bit to him, as she had done before.

He remembered the first time she had told him that. She had summoned him in her cabin, the previous night, and he had lain with her, sealing her vow to him. She had whispered it to him, just after, as he was falling asleep, and at first he had thought nothing of it. But then, she had repeated it the following morning, when they were both dressing in a hurry, and she had been taken aback when he hadn’t offered an answer to her promise. In a fit of panic, he had said the first promise he could think about her, and it had seemed to please her for she kept on saying her part and looking at him expectantly until he said his.

“And you, my queen, never leave my thoughts,” he whispered back the words, though he was sure for a different reason. She stood on her tiptoes to press a lingering kiss to his mouth, as if to entice him with what was sure to come later, behind the secrecy of closed doors, and left him with a knowing smirk barely reaching her eyes. Her Hand followed in a hurry, but not before sending him another angry glare and puffing in a haughty manner that grated on Jon’s nerves.

His feet led him without his consent to the Lord’s chambers while his mind wandered about the following days. To the problem of the dragons, the constant attention his- their _mother_ demanded from him added to the pile of the worries he would’ve rather left at Dragonstone. He would need to find a way to estrange the queen from his company, and to find Sansa – he was aware that it was quickly becoming a necessity, he thought as he stopped in front of her door.

His hand twitched with the urge to throw open the door and march into the room, uncaring of whatever he might interrupt. Sansa had always sent whoever was with her away, before, and without a second thought. But it hadn’t be completely right, completely true, completely him. He quietened his ragging breathing to try and hear if voices could be hear through the heavy door, but of course it was impossible this way.

What would he do if he knocked only to be dismissed? What would he do if she expected someone else? Jon swallowed back a whine at the thought that it could happen, that it _will_ , soon, and started pacing in front of the closed door.

Did it already happen? He wasn’t aware of anything, but then, should it have happened, he’d probably be the last to know. Ladies didn’t share with their brothers the matter of their hearts, it simply wasn’t done. No matter how much he ached for a sign, a hint, a little thing that might put an end to his anguish... or fuel it until he ended it himself.


	2. Chapter 2

The thought of something like that happening had haunted Jon for moons. It had only worsened as he was being kept away from her; he used to frequently lose focus as he was mining, eating or thinking and wonder if some other lord was offering Sansa closeness and protection and company. It was maddening.

Perhaps Arya knows something, Jon thought as he let his head fall against the door. He could try and find a way to glean information discreetly. If she was to be believed, his little- Arya had become a master of whisperers of her own, during all those years apart. And if Sansa’s look at that moment was, too, then she hadn’t been bragging about it one bit. He’ll have to find a moment for that, on the morning, after he went hunting.

And perhaps only time will bring him the answers he sought. With clenched teeth, he reminded himself that waiting for an official announcement was the only proper reaction to this situation. Still, he dreaded the day when he’ll have to stand before the Heart Tree, with an impassible face or, the gods have mercy, a smiling one, and witness some stranger become her husband in sight of gods and men. And he knew that day would come, sooner rather than later. Before his departure, many a lord had come to him with a proposal on their lips to wed his sweet sister, making without fail his ears ring and his vision turn red. As he was away, who knew if they hadn’t come directly to Sansa? Who knew if one proposal had not already been accepted?

What could be done, then? If Sansa were to introduce him to some man, eyes shining with shared happiness as she crushed him with one word.

“Jon? Is that-?” A bare hand lifted to where one of his rested against the door, making his heart skip a beat for two different reasons. Jon abruptly backed away from the door, staggering for a moment as he tried to regain his footing. Sansa was standing there, looking surprised to see him…

Oh gods, Jon thought as his eyes widened and his whole body tensed as if to prepare itself for pain, she saw me… she saw me practically hugging the door leading to her bedroom, alone, at night, in a corridor.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked, her hand – still bared to the cold of the falling night, his mind couldn’t help but notice – hesitantly stretched toward him. His would only need to reach back and he would be able to warm hers. Jon shook his head at that, willing honor to prevail once more over such impulses.

He tried for a reassuring smile. He hoped he did not look as caught-red-handed as he felt while he assured her that he was only waiting for her. “But I wouldn’t want to bother you,” he quickly added, remembering how weary she had looked, on the afternoon, “if you’re too tired to talk…”

She smiled at him, and his feet moved on their own accord to her, closing the distance between them. Much to his shameful pleasure, she didn’t step back or look ill at ease. “It’s too early for sleep, yet, when there’s still so much to be done. Besides, how would I look if I were to retire before, say, Arya? She spends the day running, training and fighting and I spend mine indoors, mostly sitting. People would be scandalized,” she quipped.

“People know how hard you’re working, my- Sansa.” _My love_ he’d wanted to say, before he corrected himself, for sometimes it was hard for him to remember she wasn’t, could never be. Even if the way he was standing, so close to her, trying to catch the smell of her skin with every breath, and in a deserted corridor no less, was everything but proper. Even if they bore the same sigil. Even if she slept every night in what everyone had assured him was supposed to be the Lord’s chamber, _his_ chamber. Even if she looked at him with more affection and understanding than he had ever received. And, yes, even if he wanted to hold her into his arms and kiss her and love her for as long as she desired… or just to kiss warmth back in those hands.

“My Sansa?” She repeated, with a tease, and he could swear she had never looked lovelier than in that moment. The smile made her eyes crinkle some more before her face turned serious. “I’m wondering if you saw Ghost, in the last hour,” she said, thankfully forgetting his slip of the tongue as quickly as he spoke it.

That brought a frown to his face. “Ghost? No, I’ve not seen him since this morning, in the courtyard. Why are you looking for him?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. We were sitting near the fire, with Bran and Arya, and he was with us, and an hour ago he left the room in quite a hurry. I thought he just caught a smell or something, but he didn’t come back and, well, the weather seems a bit…”

She trailed off as they both turned to look through the window, at the end of the corridor, to the wind swirling and the snow flying. It was clear that anything and anyone that went outside from now on would remain outside for, at least, the entire night. Jon winced under his breath: with the strength of the wind, it was more than probable that every rabbit and hare of the vicinity would stay hidden in its burrow. It’d take more time, but it would still be manageable. He’d have to wake up earlier than planned, though.

“He’ll be alright,” he told her. He’s sure of it, somewhere from the back of his mind, he knew.

“You’re right. I suppose I’ve just grown used to his presence, is all.” She shifted on her feet, already uneasy about what she was about to say, even before she said it. “He would spend most of the day outside, on a hill, waiting for your return. But he always came back on the nights, for… for his dinner. Usually I would find him at the door, waiting.”

It was Jon’s turn to shift from his right foot to his left, and his eyes to look down. He bit back the words she left unspoken. _On the nights, yes, Ghost would come back within the castle. I know. He’d scratch at your door until you would let him enter, and in the same time send away whoever you were discussing with – the serving girls barely with a glance, Maester Wolkan with an impatient yip and Baelish with a growl. His dinner would be bits and pieces of yours. Then, sometimes, you would stroke his head or brush his fur, and he’d relish in every moment of it. And he’d lay near the fire to sleep, and you’d smile at the contented grumble that he’d make. I know._

 _I would have gone mad had I not had that at night_ , he wanted to say too. Wanted to beg her pardon, to assure her he had never watched, never smelled, never even jumped at the foot of her bed, but he won’t. This was selfish, this was vile and comforting. Love is the death of duty, he remembered Maester Aemon saying, an eternity ago, and it had never seemed so true when it concerned her. His love was the death of the duty he owed her, the duty any brother owed to his sister. Yet it had happened, and a long time ago, perhaps even as he saw her for the first time, when she came to him with dirt on her face and her hair a mess.

He cleared his throat loudly, in hope it would help quieten his thoughts and settle his thundering heart.

“You could join us!” Sansa blurted, her cheeks having turned rosy while he was busy watching his hands and reassessing everything. “I mean, if there’s nothing better for you to do. We’re not working or anything,” she quickly amended. “But we’d like to have you – Arya and Bran have greatly missed you.”

 _And you haven’t?_ He wanted to inquire, to make sure this small feeling, at least, was reciprocated. It is only when he witnessed her cheeks coloring in an even brighter shade of red that he realized he had spoken aloud.

He began internally chastising himself – he really didn’t know what came to him. It wasn’t the first time he talked to her alone, so he saw no reason for him to be so loose-tongued in her presence, with the ‘my love’ that became ‘my Sansa’ first and then that demand, prying where she obviously didn’t want him to pry, as if he had a right to know every bit of her thoughts.  
He was always doing that, now that he thought about it. Always picking and poking for more; and he only had her decent mind to thank that she hadn’t understood what it all hid. Yet.

“I did,” she softly promised.

Jon smiled as the last tension that he hadn’t noticed could still be found in his body melted away, and it seemed to him he could take his first real breath in moons. He hurried to agree, claiming he had no other place he had to be.

He absentmindedly offered his arm for her to take as he was babbling before reality crashed its reminder and he snatched his arm back in its place, his hands tightening into fists to prevent them from reaching out when Sansa did the same with her own hand.

“Lead the way,” he rasped.

The moment was shattering, and they walked side by side in the corridors, Jon taking great care as to not touch her and make her even more uneasy in his presence.

“You found him?” Arya’s voice asked, when Sansa stepped inside the room, just before he did.

“Not Ghost, no.” She didn’t look back, just walked straight to where a few chairs had been assembled in front of the hearth of Bran’s chambers, taking something laying on the ground. “He’ll come back when he’ll have whatever it is he left for finished, I suppose.” Bran was sitting near her, in that special chair built by the Maester, his back to the door and looking into the flames. Arya was apart of them, sitting on the bed and playing with a dagger.

Jon quietly shut the door behind him, relishing in the newfound warmth of the smaller room. He hesitated for a moment, embarrassingly unsure if the wisest course of action would be to sit beside Sansa or to remain at a distance, despite what he may wish. Only Arya’s interrogative look – at seeing him hover by the door – pushed him to action, and he shuffled to where his- she- oh bugger it! to where his little sister was sitting.

“It’s Valyrian steel,” he noticed, scooting closer to her, as he eyed the weapon flying from one of her hand to the other. “Is it Howar’s work?” Howar was the new head smith of Wintertown; since Mikken hadn’t been mentioned by the Boltons, he and Sansa had deduced the old smith must have died following Robb or during the different sackings of Winterfell. The new one was a hard-working man, albeit always hungry for well-roasted pork and pretty women, if one asked him.

“Nah, it’s too pretty,” Arya spread her fingers, allowing him to notice the intricate etching and added gold on the dagger’s handle. It had a distinct southern design. “It’s not from here. But it’s mine.” She smiled crookedly at him then, her eyes proud and defiant, and suddenly Jon was thrown back years ago, on a simple evening like this one.

He felt his own lips stretch in an answering smile, both at the beloved memory of a time passed and at the realization that the time would be able to start again. “And… where did you get it?” He was going to ask her if she knew how to use it, but the answer to that was evident, he pointed out to himself as Arya spun and twisted and thrusted it more and more quickly.

“I took it.”

“From who?”

She reported her attention to him, then, stopping the dagger so deftly he couldn’t fight back an impressed noise. “Who do you think?” She asked, her eyes glinting with joy. He knew that she was remembering their old banter, then, just as he was. That was a relief to see that, even after all those years apart, they were still as close as they had always been, and they could fall back into their old banter just as easily as if they’d never left.

He held out his hand and examined the handle more closely when she dropped the Valyrian – so obviously a wealthy first owner – dagger – a clean one, too, so obviously hadn’t served much, which was a good thing – in it.

“That’s unfair! I don’t know every person you’ve ever met,” he mock-complained in the exaggerated tone Rickon and Bran used to employ when they were really young. His imitation had the desired effect, for Arya puffed, and it seemed to Jon he could hear Sansa chuckling. And, indeed, when he turned his head to where she was sitting next to Bran and looking at them, a piece of clothing resting on her lap, her blue eyes shone with the same feeling Arya’s and his did, even if she tried to muffle its sound within the palm of her hand. He stupidly felt his eyes soften and his heartbeat increase its thumping as he wished for the moment to never end so he could relish in it over and over. His own smile turned prouder, perhaps a bit smug as he witnessed Sansa’s laugh – how long had it been since he had heard her be so carefreely happy? How long will it be until he can witness her do it again?

A finger pocking him in the shoulder brought him back to the present moment, and squashed every wishful thinking of silken alabaster skin, rosy cheeks, glazed eyes and kissed lips. 

“So?” His sister said, in the voice of one who does not ask for the first time. 

“What?” He retorted in what was supposed to be a disinterested tone and instead turned out to be a raspy, barely-audible sigh.

He turned his head back to Arya, letting Sansa go back to her previous occupation. His sister’s brows furrowed slightly and he sat straighter on the bed, trying to appear as if nothing strange had happened. Thankfully, Arya lost her concerned look as quickly as she had summoned them and went back to poking him for an answer. “Well, at least take a guess! I saw you looking for hints on the handle.” She looked at him almost plaintively, then, urgent of going back to their old banter and behavior as if nothing had interrupted them – were it the time or just his strange demeanor.

“You’re right,” he swiftly nodded, glad she was willing to forget what just happened.

He really needed to start being careful, not only when the dragon queen or her court was present, but also when it was just the four of them. He supposed that Bran could perhaps find him excuses, but Arya wouldn’t understand. And neither would Sansa. _No, it can only happen when I’m on my own, just like it did before, and just like it will after…_ After, yes, once the war was won and he announces the truth about what he is. _A dragon._ He could hear a part of his own mind whisper it to him, a part usually dormant but that had been brought to his grasp on this very morning and that he had done his best to stifle since then.

And he will continue to do so, he decided before turning his attention fully back to Arya, who was still waiting for his guess. “Was it a lady?”

He heard one stifled shocked laugh, and another full of mirth. “What’s making you say that?” Arya asked him, between a few snorts.

“It doesn’t look like it’s been used much, and as you said, it’s… pretty. I mean there’s a lot of finery and details and… it’s delicate. It’s something I imagine a lady might command and use should she need to defend herself.”

“It’s not a lady.”

“Aye, I figured that out.” He paused, trying to think if he knew the name of a man, rich enough to pay for such a dagger, that must have served him only as an adornment. “Was it some knight in King’s Landing?”

This time, his sister’s eyes grew wide with surprise and darted between his face and a point behind his right shoulder. Then, the mirth came back into them, but a different one, one that reminded Jon of other memories of what their conversations used to be like. “Could have been, yes, I suppose. A handsome knight like, say, the Knight of Flowers! He did was pretty, right, Sansa?”

The _Knight of Flowers_?

Arya continued her infernal teasing, none the wiser, when neither he nor Sansa retorted something quickly enough for her taste. “So handsome when he rode to you, clad in his pretty clean armor. There was no dagger at his belt, there was no sword either, if I remember correctly, but he had a rose and well… he stood a better chance with you with a flower than with Valyrian steel, right? You can’t put a dagger in your hair, after all, that would not be ladylike.” She giggled at that.

In her hair?

Jon could feel a frown form itself on his face, and the fingers of his sword hand twitched, instinctively searching to wrap themselves against the pommel of his own Valyrian steel as a thousand questions rammed in his mind. Arya did not seem to notice that he had stopped moving and that his expression hadn’t a single trace of ease in it.

“Ser Loras was only gallant,” Sansa softly answered, and he could hear the smile present in her voice.

This time, though, Jon didn’t have it in him to smile back only for the sound. No. Not when it was question of that… that…

Who was he, anyway?

Had she known him for a long time? Had they been friends in King’s Landing? In love? If he gave her roses – that she wore in her hair, on top of that…

Did she think of him often, when they were parted? Did she fell into his arms when they reunited? Were the northern lords aware of his existence? Where was he?

Was he here now? In their home?

“Joooon?” Arya poked his shoulder again, thrice in rapid succession. “You alright?” Her eyes darted to his hand, which was holding the dagger – ser Loras’ dagger? He threw it on the coverlet of the bed in repulse. Did he give it to Sansa’s sister in the hope that it would help him win her over? Had she already been won over? Was it a gift for Sansa’s hand? If so, Jon needed to have two words with his little sister about never ever agreeing to any proposal made so cowardly. 

But first, he needed to maintain appearances. “Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” He replied, as Sansa started to stand up, concerned by her sister’s question.  
But Jon needed to stop looking at her.

“You’re not laughing,” Arya pointed out accusingly. “We used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you _always_ laughed, or at the very least smiled.” She looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to just start laughing. Except, with his thoughts muddled with the sudden presence of a man, a knight, southern, who gave her a rose, that he did not know until now existed, Jon had no want of laugh and merriment.

But Arya was obviously waiting for a reaction, her eyes turning more pleading the more he stayed impassible. Even Bran confirmed her sayings. And Jon was cornered, because there was no possibility of his laughter sounding anything like amusement at this very moment.

So he forced a smile, one of those ugly things he always used in presence of the dragon queen – of anyone that wasn’t his family – but, as he expected her to, Arya saw right through it.

He was saved to explain more, however, when strange sounds occurred behind the door, turning everyone’s attention to it. Bran frowned, Sansa turned back to her sewing, her hair thankfully hiding her eyes and preventing her to witness the desperate glance he threw at her, and Arya’s hand went to the dagger as she walked silently to the door. Pulling himself together, Jon in turn stood up, taking a few steps in Sansa’s direction while taking care not to walk too close.

Everything turned out to be for nothing, because Arya’s shoulders relaxed as soon as she had opened the door and she tucked the dagger safely in her belt. “So that’s what you’ve been doing, uh!” She stepped aside to let Ghost proudly trot into the room, his fur spiked with ice and snow alike. He held a bloody form in his mouth – _The hare for Sansa’s fast!_ – that he dropped at her feet, in front of four pairs of bewildered eyes.

Jon felt the blood leave his face, and hurried to lower it and hope no one would think of… Gods, that wasn’t the first time Ghost and him shared some wants – what _shouldn’t have_ happened during his stay at Dragonstone a proof of that – but never had it be so… plain.  
Jon racked his mind to find out if he had mentioned anything about this great idea of his to Arya or, worse, to Sansa. He recalled nothing, but that didn’t mean…

“…aps he knows how to read thoughts? Or it must be some comment I made, surely. I don’t remember saying anything but…” Sansa, when he mustered enough calm to steal a glance at her, was absentmindedly petting the direwolf’s head, looking surprised but not disgusted by the dead animal laying near her feet.

“Or perhaps he just sensed you must be hungry?” Arya said, testing the words as she spoke them.

“I don’t know if direwolves…”

“They can,” Bran assured without leaving the far look on his face that he seemingly continuously sported. “Summer and I used to nearly read each other thoughts sometimes. And there’s the green dreams, too. Ghost’s not yours, but since Jon instructed him to…” Thankfully, Bran’s voice trailed off until he was back again in his thoughts, or in his visions.

“The dreams, yes…” Arya sighed, her eyes losing their focus for a moment as he felt his throat tighten. If Bran and Arya had these dreams too, then it wouldn’t be too long for Sansa to understand that he must have them, too.

And Jon couldn’t let that happen. “I’ll take that out of your sight,” he announced, taking the dead hare while calling Arya’s name, “So, whose dagger was it, at the end?” He asked, going for the door and ignoring Ghost’s whine.

“Littlefinger’s,” his sister answered smugly. “I used it to cut off his throat, too.” He couldn’t help a grin from appearing and used his free hand to reach over and mess up her hair as he walked by her, his actions too quick for Arya to do anything but cry out in mock-indignation, drowning his barely concealed cackles.

Once Arya swatted his hand away and their chuckling died out, both of their bodies tensed in alarm as they saw Ghost get back on his paws, face the door and start softly growling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> But who could be behind the door? (Damn, it sounds like a bad thriller (a very very bad one, yes) of the 30's)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway!
> 
> Next one will probably switch to Sansa's POV, so stay tuned, the ride's not over yet!


	3. Chapter 3

_We used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you_ always _laughed!_

The sting of restrained tears made Sansa blink again and again as the words Arya had said resounded over and over in her mind. She scrambled to find another subject in which she could focus her thoughts on, but no matter how much she tried, she did not succeed for more than an instant, and the words kept coming back, and the hurt with them.

Only Ghost’s antics had distracted her enough to have a chance to catch a glimpse of Jon’s reaction. At that moment, the meaning of the words barely adding up and still struggling to turn into the coherent idea they were, she had hoped he would vehemently deny it, or that he would put an end to it, and affirm that it was all behind them now, and that Jon and Sansa were real siblings, dear friends even. Instead he had smiled. A bit awkwardly, yes, it had not been a deep laugh, but that was only because she had been present – she saw him look at her, behind the protective curtain of her hair, just before he smiled, to see her reaction – and he was being kind because he was Jon.

_You always laughed_

Laughed. There was a time when she’d be the laughing stock of the last family that remained to her. Of the three most important person in her world.

Arya had said it, and he hadn’t denied. And then, as if to stir the knife in the already-bleeding wound, Bran had confirmed that it was true.

She probably deserved it. She was no fool, she remembered very well how silly she had been, believing her life would become a song and that all would be good. She had always be much closer to her lady mother than to the rest of her siblings, even – especially – Jon, who had enjoyed to run, spar and train when she had rather spent her time sewing, singing and reading. A distance had been established, and its walls were not completely breached, yet.

If Ghost hadn’t chosen this very moment to come back, Sansa feared she might have broken into sobs right there, in the middle of the room. Her emotions had been all over the place, these past few weeks, and this might have been the last straw. She had struggled to control her tears, but at least her voice didn’t shake when they had talked about the direwolves – and even if it had been the case, her siblings surely attributed it to Lady’s memory.

The white direwolf brought her company and comfort, something she hadn’t quite realized she craved so much until she met Jon and he gave it so freely. During his absence, Ghost had been a sort of substitute, a reminder that it was only temporary and that his master would come back. Arya and Bran brought her comfort, too, of course, but somehow it turned out to be different. So different than it was with Jon.

She hadn’t realized how different it would turn out to be, and she feared she was only beginning to grasp the scope of the problem.

_We used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you always laughed!_

When was it going to stop hurting? When was she going to learn?

Ghost appeared in her vision field, standing high on his paws and with his hackles still raised, rumbling warningly. It was a quite faint sound, similar to the one he would make laying in front of her bedroom’s hearth, except it sounded a lot more… threatening than she was used to.

With her, the direwolf was always affectionate, and the picture of quietness. The only point of comparison she could think of, for that behavior, was when Lady had sensed her fear, at the Trident, in front of the King Robert’s Justice, ser Ilyn Payne, but she had made a fairly different sight than Ghost did.

“I just want to sit close to the fire, that’s all,” a gruff voice spoke, startling her. And an instant later, Tyrion managed to walk around the white direwolf, far enough that, even if he leaped across the chair, Ghost wouldn’t be able to reach him. “I knew I’d end up having to look up at that beast,” he muttered to himself, a deep frown darkening his features as he regularly stole glance to Ghost, who was still observing his every action.

Sansa swallowed back a lump in her throat; if Tyrion was here, and he didn’t look one bit happy about it, it could only mean that his queen was present too. She hadn’t noticed her arrival, being too preoccupied to blink away the stupid tears and the silly thoughts and she chastised herself for that.

She sprung to her feet, clasped her hands in front of her, perhaps a bit too forcefully, for Jon looked startled, and put a smile on her face. “Your Grace, I did not hear you coming in. I-”

The dragon queen waved her hand dismissively, in an after-thought gesture, her attention solely focused on Ghost. “It is your wolf, isn’t it Jon. Look how big he is!” She sounded excited as a child and, as a child would do, she did not wait for an answer and leant over, her hand outstretched to pet Ghost.

Sansa willed for her face to remain as inviting as possible, even when a small part of her dreaded the moment when Ghost would melt like putty under the queen’s caresses, the way he would under hers.

Mercifully, the direwolf turned his head away before she touched him, suddenly remembering the hare’s presence. He trotted to where it was laying on the ground, where Jon probably had put it in order not to receive his queen with his hands full of Ghost’s trophy. The mother of dragons laughed at the direwolf’s antics, claiming that she would have find other ideas on how to win him over too, whatever that meant, Sansa thought dully.

The queen was whispering something to Jon that, where she was standing, she couldn’t hear.

“Lady Sansa? This fell off when you stood,” Tyrion was standing beside her, holding out the coat of fur she had been working on for the past hour. She hadn’t even noticed its absence, so focused she had been on her own matters. Thankfully, her needle and thread she had the wits of placing them on the stool she used as a table.

She thanked him, about to make a comment on how they kept holding out fallen objects to the other when Tyrion’s eyes ended on her hands when she took back the nearly-finished cloth.

“What happened to your hands?” He asked incredulously, his own hands snatching one of hers to take a closer look.

She took a sharp intake of breath, both because his act surprised her and because he squeezed the small pricks that dotted the palm of her hand with too much strength. She had held her needle a little too forcefully on and off as the same words went back and force in her mind.

You always laughed!

_Why?_

Tyrion was scrutinizing her face, and his eyes widened slightly when he saw hers get misty. “Crying,” he breathed out. “Is something wrong?”

“I-” Her voice quavered a bit, but Sansa was confident she could dismiss his concern easily and take back her hand.

“Lannister!”

For a crazy second, Sansa thought Ghost had somehow acquired the ability to speak, for the hissed name sounded nothing human but, after that second passed, and with the shuffling she heard behind her back, she came back to her senses.

Jon strode toward them, his face incensed, his gaze focused on Tyrion, but it was Arya that came to them first and snatched her hand from Tyrion’s grip.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Lannister?” Arya snarled at Tyrion, whose face slowly twisted into an indignant expression.

“What’s the problem with you Starks?”

“My problem is that I don’t want to see you anywhere near my sister!”

This was enough for Sansa. “Arya,” she cried out in protestation. “You know the truth. He never hurt me, you know it. I told you he was always kind to me,” she said in a softer voice, for she did not want to make a scene in front of the dragon queen, but she had to say it.

But it seemed her sister wouldn’t take the same view. “Oh, I don’t doubt you found him _kind_. He sure was, when compared to Joffrey.” She huffed and looked down at him disdainfully as Jon walked past a hissing Ghost and stood between the two of them, both his hands clenched into fists and half-hidden by his cloak.

Up close, he looked as tired as if he had just won a battle by scraps and was expected to ride back on the morrow. “Are you alright?” he asked, still, because he was kind like that.  
She wanted to wrap him in her arms and hold him until all their worries disappeared, she realized as her breathing quickened.

She mumbled an excuse about how she was feeling a bit tired, barely aware that the conversation continued barely two feet away from them. “You’re not welcome here, Lannister. Don’t forget it,” Arya warned between her teeth.

“I wouldn’t be able to, even should I wish so.”

“You-you don’t want to retire? Or at least sit down,” Jon proposed, holding out his hand should she need his help to take the one step back to her armchair. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, and he seemed to notice her pause because he swiftly pulled back his hand safely by his side.

Beside them, oblivious to their little discussion, Arya and Tyrion were still glaring at each other. Sansa thought she heard the forty-something namedays man childishly comment on how everyone, and especially northerners, despised him because of his status in life.

“I’m fine, thank you both for your concern,” she affirmed in a clear voice, looking pointedly at one, then the other, drowning Tyrion’s complaints, Arya’s warnings and Jon’s musings. She then made a show of sitting down and readying herself to continue her work, thankfully followed by everyone.

“Tyrion told me that the two of you were married in King’s Landing?” The dragon queen nonchalantly said once she had made herself comfortable next to Jon. Sansa felt him tense at the words, and she observed his hands tighten into fists again.

“For a short time, yes,” her first husband added, shifting uncomfortably on his seat. That makes the two of us ill at ease, Sansa thought, scrapping her mind for a swift change of subject.

Daenerys, however, appeared oblivious to their predicament. “I’m sure it was a relief for you, after Joffrey.” Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, feeling her cheeks flush with her shame, then darken under the weight of Jon’s heated gaze on her. “Tyrion told me he took a lot after his mother, and well, I’ve met the woman and if he was only half as vicious as her…”

“He’s dead,” Arya curtly interrupted her, “and so will she. Soon.”

“Oh yes! It’ll be a joy to deliver the Seven Kingdoms from the last of the Usurper’s spawns!”

“And for the true heir of the Iron Throne to finally take it back,” Tyrion quipped.

“Yes,” the queen sighed. “I’ll bring justice to House Stark.”

“We thank you for it, Your Grace,” Jon nodded to her, his face closed.

The dragon queen beamed at him and started to describe how life in her court will be, her eyes focusing on him, then on her Hand, and then on Arya.

Sansa used everybody’s else distraction from her person to watch Jon to her heart’s content, while her hands carried on her sewing, almost on their own volition, the only reminder of their movements the slight sting each time she closed her right hand a certain way. Her King who wasn’t a King anymore behaved quite differently than she had anticipated – she had feared.

Since Littlefinger – and yes, Sansa was aware that he wasn’t the most reliable man, you don’t have to remind me of that Arya, I know he was probably lying – had observed that Jon had let himself be blinded by the dragon queen’s beauty and bent the knee, Sansa had been trying to prepare herself to be called on a private meeting on the day of their arrival. She had imagined Jon and his queen would want to wed as soon as possible, to strengthen the alliance between the North and the South and placate the northern lords before the war.

And because they would be in love.

She had been convinced love didn’t exist, not really, not truly, for years. Perhaps that was the reason she had immediately dismissed the idea of Jon falling in love, that the idea hadn’t even crossed her mind before. Love was linked to her childhood, and the happy time, long long ago, when she had been surrounded by it and she had been so sure it was promised to her in her own marriage.

_We used to make fun of Sansa all the time_

Life had made her forget her parents had loved each other. Robb had made a marriage of love, too. A loving marriage was granted to good people, people who deserved it; Littlefinger’s remarks had reminded her of that.

But if there was any person in the world who deserved a loving marriage, it was Jon.

And so, after having spent weeks unaware of this possibility, Sansa had accepted that it would happen. That she would meet this Dragon Queen, _who was said to be the most beautiful woman in the world_ , and that Jon and her would announce their marriage.  
And once the thought had happened, it had been impossible to make it leave her mind. She hadn’t thought of anything else than Jon’s wedding – she had imagined everything, from the ceremony, in front of the Heart Tree without doubt, to the costumes, the cloaks and the feast. She had bought good quality leather for him, since he always insist to use common materials for his clothes and had saved enough grey fabric to make a cloak, should they have had time for the Targaryen one but not for his Stark one.  
All in all, she had been ready.

The queen’s beauty had indeed been painfully blinding, this morning, but Sansa had only had eyes for Jon. The way he had laughed at seeing Bran alive, the way he had rushed to Arya as she had rushed to him, the way he had almost did the same with her, it had melted the last personal reservation she might have had against such a union. Not that these had been relevant, in any way. Of course, Jon would never treat them differently just because he was in love.

But none of that mattered anymore, because Jon was not in love with the dragon queen.

Stolen glances, affectionate smiles, hushed conversations and hand holding were expected of a in-love pair. Instead, when the King in the North and the Queen of the South found themselves sharing the same room, she witnessed Jon’s face close off, their bodies remaining distant and they barely exchanged a word more than necessary. He was uncomfortable in her presence – and it was only hers, she had verified; he had been his usual self with Arya, and even alone with her.

So, as it turns out, all my readiness was for nothing. Strangely, Sansa wasn’t bothered by that, not one bit. She wondered if it was because it was all so sudden, so rushed. It caught me off guard, she decided, but I will have a better reaction, next time, with the next lady.

Jon looked up from his wringing hands at that moment, his eyes finding hers looking at him. The wringing motion stopped, and he smiled softly, scooting closer to where she sat so that his words would not disrupt the queen’s. “I was… What are you doing that for?” He pointed at the coat, his mouth slightly pursed, but his eyes still intent. “If I’m not being presumptuous, of course.”

“You’re… not.” She wasn’t sure what was the reason behind that reservation. Did he think her unwilling to share with him even the most basic detail of her life, if he asked? She wasn’t. She would tell him everything he’d want to know, gladly, should he ask. “I’m trying to make a coat large enough for Gilly, so that she could wear it and wrap it around Little Sam at the same time, when she’s carrying him,” she explained, demonstrating what she meant at the same time. The warmth of the coat added with the glowing fire and her own cloak and Ghost tucked between Jon’s and her legs was nearly uncomfortable. “So that when the storm comes, they will share heat. If it ends up practical, we’ll have to make as much as possible.”

Jon frowned at that. “I’m afraid there won’t be enough time to make one for every mother here, before the dead come here.”

“I mean once the war is won, and we live.”

He nodded, seemingly basking in the assured tone of her voice. “So, you’ve met Gilly?”

“I did,” she said. The woman had wished to help them make enough clothes for the people who would arrive in Winterfell for the war and, after a few evenings stitching and talking, Sansa had become even closer to her than she was of lady Leona and her daughter Wylla Manderly, lady Eddara Tallhart or lady Alys Karstark. Sam Tarly was a great friend of Jon, from what Bran had told her, little Sam was a dear and Gilly was kind and accomplished. “They are very nice people.”

“They are. I’m glad you like their company. I remember how surrounded you were, always with your Septa and Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel, and I’ve never wanted you to be…” He paused, searching for the right word, “lonely.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I’m not!” she assured him. “I spend the most of my days with Arya and Bran, or in reunions with the lords, or making clothes with some ladies and that’s all there is,” she added, then, as he seemed to want her to elaborate more. “I’m usually never alone long.” Even the nights, she had spent them with Ghost laying by the hearth of her chambers, though this she kept to herself, without really knowing why.

“Good! That’s… good.” He played a moment with his gloves, which laid on his lap, and Sansa understood that it meant the conversation was over. But he spoke up again. “The lords haven’t been bothering you too much, then? Outside of the meetings, I mean!”

“They haven’t-”

“Good.”

“-They’re still bothersome at the meetings, however,” she chuckled.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to get used to it, m-Sansa.”

The wince he made at his words could have gone unnoticed if her attention hadn’t been completely focused on him, like every time they talked. ‘My Sansa’ she supposed he was going to say again. She regretted having repeated it to him, the other time, for it had obviously embarrassed him, when she hadn’t wanted that.

She didn’t mind the appellation, no. As far as she was concerned, Jon could call her whatever he wished. It was even a pleasing occurrence, a precious one if she could think things like that. _My Sansa_ , it was hers, it meant she was somehow different than other persons in his life, dearer perhaps. She was sure he didn’t go around all day calling ‘my Sam’, or ‘my Davos’ or even ‘my Daenerys’. So, no, she didn’t mind the appellation at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several little things to note
> 
> As you may have noticed, the chapter's counter went from 3 to 4 (so don't worry, I'm not ending the story on that, there's still a (pretty long) chapter following). It happened for a very simple reason: too much inspiration, too much to say and since I didn't want to have a third chapter that made 1/2 of the whole story, I cut it in two (approximately).
> 
> I also removed the tags concerning Daenerys 'not Dany friendly' or I don't remember how I phrased it but... anyway. I don't feel like I've depicted her in such an horrible way that the tag implied, even in Sansa's POV - which was mainly why I put it in the first place - where defiance and jealousy could turn out quite aggressive toward our poor Khaleesi (or so some people had underlined it to me in my last story)
> 
> And, to end on a more positive note (or well, I don't really know but if you're still here that must mean that you like the story so far :D), knowing myself, the next chapter will be a bit longer than this one and well, it'll be the last one so all that tension that had been nicely building will have to snap, somehow!
> 
> Thank you for reading, and kudoing, and commenting!!


	4. Chapter 4

“Anyway,” Arya nearly cried out, making Sansa startle from her pleasant thinking. “What are the two of you doing?” her sister demanded as she shrugged off Gilly’s coat, the heat suddenly unbearable.

She had half a want to encourage them to keep ignoring Jon and her, and continue their conversation, but Arya’s words had brought back everyone’s attention on them. Sansa turned to her sister, disgruntled with her intervention, as Jon told them some half-lie about discussing for the preparation for the morrow’s meeting.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Arya whispered in protest, her words covered by the queen’s answering ones. “I was struggling over there. Targaryen was interrogating me on everything!”

She frowned, her displeasure quickly turning into worry. An interrogation could mean several things, and rarely good ones. Sansa remembered the shadows of the dragons she saw flying north of the castle, more clearly than she would have liked, and all they implied. “What did she want?” She pressed on, trying to get a hold on the situation while chastising herself for being distracted. There was a stranger in her home, she shouldn’t forget that.

“That we know each other better, because she heard _oh so many things about me during the journey here_ , she felt as if we share _oh so much_ and she wants us to be friends.” She spat the last word as if it had personally insulted her. “Ah! As if I would ever want to be friend with a _Targaryen_ , let alone her.”

“I understand, Arya, but this…”

“I couldn’t survive it! I’m not good at making small talk with my enemies. I’m good at killing them, that’s all.”

“She’s not our enemy,” Sansa whispered back. “At least she can’t be aware of it,” she amended at the furious look her sister shot at her. “We’ve talked about that.”

“We did, but I warned you then that I didn’t want to pretend to like her. You can do it, if you want, but not me.”

“She talked with you-”

“Well, since I’ve had the oh-so-wonderful privilege to be the chosen one from the mighty queen of the seven acres, I shall die now for there will be no moment in my life when I shall be happier than this seven-blessed day.”

“You know that’s not what I was going to say,” Sansa protested in a feeble voice, trying to smother her chuckling.

“I know,” she puffed, rolling her eyes in a gesture that was very much Arya. “I say let’s Jon entertain her a bit, since it’s his fault she’s here.”

Sansa smiled conspiratorially, “Poor Jon.”

Arya’s face hardened; she lifted her chin up and pursued her mouth in a thin line. Sansa worried the inside of her cheek, nervous that she might have been too dismissive toward Arya’s favorite brother. They love each other, these two, she and Arya’s difficult reunion and the way she had witnessed them interact, before the dragon queen came here the proof of that. “He doesn’t seem to mind it that much.” Arya nodded to where Jon was sitting, behind Sansa’s shoulder.

She turned to him then, slowly, her mind half-detached from her body, dread closing her throat in that strange sensation where you know your dream is switching to a nightmare, and you are helpless to stop it. She was familiar with the feeling, were it happening at night or in reality, but this caught her off guard.

Perhaps it was the reason why, as she saw them holding hands, she only felt incomprehension.

_They shouldn’t hold hands, they’re not married, they’re not betrothed. Aren’t they?_

She suddenly wasn’t sure.

Why would they arrange a marriage without telling her? It didn’t make sense! Petyr couldn’t be right. He’d been wrong about her, he’d been wrong about Arya, he’d been wrong about the Starks, he must have been wrong about Jon.

She forced herself to concentrate on her earlier assured deduction, since she had been the one observing Jon. She knew him, and she knew he wouldn’t… No, not without telling her. This wasn’t about bending the knee – for that, she suspected he must have his reasons – this was about him and that… other woman. She was sure _she_ would tell him, when she’ll think of marrying someone, without him having to ask or deduce it.

Yet their hands were resting entangled on Jon’s lap, and neither he nor the dragon queen were making a move to hide their touching. Sansa couldn’t see Jon’s face, for he was completely turning to his queen, but hers was relaxed and happy, the words she spoke blurred in the maelstrom of Sansa’s mind.

She could feel Arya’s and Tyrion’s eyes gauging her reaction, so she smoothed her face, braced her body and raised her own eyes to where Tyrion was sprawled, a single question swimming in them.

Have they?

_Please, please, please…_

Tyrion’s lips stretched in a bitter smile, his head slowly went up and down, and up and down, and up and down.  
“No,” Sansa breathed out, as if ser Meryn had again just slammed his mailed fist in her belly.

She kept telling herself he must be wrong, him too. She had confidence on her abilities to read Jon – they were close, she knew they were, he would tell her, she was his family – she saw his behavior this morning, in the courtyard, and then at the meetings. She saw it all. She was prepared to welcome them, to accept the wedding, yet she saw nothing of that. She can’t be wrong.

She whirled around to face Jon, her hands twitching with the sudden urge to hold herself together. She silently begged him to shake off the Targaryen woman’s hands and vehemently deny it. But his mouth, when he turned his head to her, remained closed and his eyes only showed guilt.

There was only one thing he could be guilty about, knowing him. And seeing for herself how close they were – she was practically holding his hands, and he stayed completely poised, when every time Sansa so much as brushed his arm, he looked ready to burst…

Perhaps she was the one in the wrong, after all. Perhaps she had only seen what she wanted to see, that her family would not be parted. That Jon loved her the way she loved him. That they shared a special… something.

Had he even missed her?  
She knew she had talked about him a lot, had missed him a lot when he was gone, Arya made sure she didn’t forget that but what about him? He had said nothing. It hadn’t bothered her, because he had looked as if he’d missed her, and she was confident in her ability to read him but… what if he was in love? She wasn’t under any illusions, she knew he would choose his lady love over her in the blink of an eye. A brother’s duty has its limits, after all.

“But my sister,” Arya nudged her with her elbow, just as Sansa’s heart was breaking, “though, always liked the happy stories about Targaryens. Aemon the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys was her favorite; she’ll sing it better than I ever will.”

“We’d prefer hearing you sing it, lady Arya,” the dragon queen replied, her smile stopping reaching her eyes.

“That’s not going to happen. And I’m no lady.”

“Sansa has a… a very good voice, Your Grace,” Jon stated, his voice quavering a little as his eyes barely dared to meet hers. “She used to sing all the time when we were children.”

Yes, _we used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you always laughed_ though… Why should you want to hear your silly little sister sing about love? So that you may laugh again? She was suddenly angry and scrambled to regain control over herself. “I shan’t, Your Grace. Songs lost all their appeal to me years ago, I haven’t sung one in a long time and it is not something I wish to go back to.”

She needed to see the bigger picture. Jon wasn’t just Jon, he was the King in the North, bound to do his duty, just as she was. An alliance between the North and the South was the most sensible decision they could make.

“But Sansa you-”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t wish to hear the singing anymore, but I’ll sing for you if you want.” With that, and without waiting for Jon’s response, the queen started to sing under her breath the first verse. Jon sighed and threw Sansa a sad look before focusing his attention to his love who was singing.

Sansa tried to suppress a pang of envy in her chest, to no avail. Her anger slowly flowed out of her, and longing was taking its place. They made a beautiful picture, the two of them – to say otherwise would be outright a lie – the way two people who loved each other. If she closed her eyes, she was sure that she would be able to picture herself in the dragon queen’s place, and wasn’t that idea sweet? Oh, but she wouldn’t want a king by her side, or a knight! Just a kind man, who could grow to love her and who would listen to her.

Surely such a man existed and was high-born enough that she could marry him without everybody making a fuss. She could tie her wishes with her duty, the way it had happened for her parents.

Who were the lords she knew who were marriageable? she mused as the queen gained confidence and began singing in a normal voice. Sansa passed through the list in her head, but for each one there was always something… not quite right about them.

People said lord Dickon Tarly was brave, but not very smart. Her cousin Sweetrobin could very well have gotten wiser during his years as a ward to House Royce, but his bravery was leaving something to be desired. Theon’s uncle was said to be cruel and involved with Cersei Lannister. The Riverlands were already ruled by her blood. And Dorne, the Crownlands and the Stormlands had women as their rulers. That left the Westerlands, but ser Jaime was out of the question, for obvious reasons. The dragon queen will probably punish for the kingslaying of her father and his association with his sister, anyway, when she takes the throne.

So that left her only with… Tyrion. As much as it surprised her, her first husband looked to be the only worthy option for her, in this devasted land. She knew him, she knew he was kind. He was the Hand of the Queen. Marrying him would strengthen the alliance between North and South, with two of Ned Stark’s children wed to southerners. Jon would link the North to the Throne, and she would link her home, the Vale and the Riverlands to the crone at the same time.

This is my duty, she thought as her gaze left her hands to rest on the man sitting on the other side of the room, shooting daggers at the happy future-ruling couple. The scar that marred his face had healed somewhat, in those years he spent East, but they had rendered him more bitter too. Her feelings toward him remained the same, though, and she knew that she would never love him. Care for him, perhaps? With the years, she could learn to care for the father of her children, she wondered as a shiver passed through her body. Those feelings hadn’t changed either.

But then what had a handmaiden whispered to her, once, when she’d been married to Ramsay? If she could close her eyes and imagine someone of her fancy, it might be less painful, the girl had suggested.  
But Sansa had quickly found out that anyone of her fancy quickly disappeared from behind her eyelids as soon as Ramsay’s hands laid upon her skin.

She clapped politely with the rest of them when the queen sung the last words and folded the coat she finally hadn’t been working on. She felt overwhelmed by her latest resolutions and, for once, she followed her want of putting as much distance as possible between her and Tyrion – she needed to put herself together before proposing to him, or else she feared she wouldn’t be able to utter a word.

“I haven’t been the most pleasant company tonight, I’m afraid,” she said, offering an apologetic smile. “It’s probably the fatigue.” It was half a lie, but she couldn’t very well start making reproach to Jon in front of everybody. “This was enchanting, Your Grace, but, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’ll be best if I retire now.”

“A’right, see you tomorrow,” her sister grumbled. Then she raised her voice and, in a fake awed sigh, confirmed the praise “But yes, positively enchanting, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Arya,” the queen answered, seemingly oblivious to the mockery undertone used by her sister. “It’s true that I haven’t sung in years-”

“I’ll accompany you,” Jon announced, shooting from his seat and dislodging, at least, the queen’s touch from his skin. Sansa didn’t think she would be able to stand being alone with him while her head was still swimming in uncertainty about the attitude she must adopt. But, as she was going to protest, he turned around to face _her_. “Don’t leave too on my account, though.” He nodded once at her and made a sign to let Sansa pass before him.

She brushed the top of Bran’s head with the back of her hand, which was a gesture they had quickly adopted between them. Or well, rather she desperately needed the contact and Bran allowed her to, because that one wasn’t quite as invasive as the others were. She smiled one last time at Arya before striding to the door, wanting to get away from the room as fast as possible.

She waited at the other side of the door for Jon to join her, half listening to the conversation that was still going on on the other side.

“You’re right, I’ll stay. This will allow us to better get acquainted, I can’t wait,” the dragon queen paused, and Sansa heard the room go silent, but for clothes rustling. “You have my heart!” She then exclaimed, much to Sansa’s incredulity. This… this was unexpected, she thought as her heart started beating wildly. A sense of dread was slowly taking possession of her, and the time seemed to stretch until she heard a response.

“You never leave my thoughts, my queen,” Jon declared and she squeezed her eyes shut. Sansa felt the words – those words she never spoken but that etched themselves in her memory – turn to ashes in her mouth. She willed herself to swallow back her tears and, when her eyes fluttered open, Ghost’s form striding to the courtyard was only slightly blurry.

Jon had pursed his mouth and his shoulders were squared as he stormed out of the room and practically slammed the door shut behind him. The sound seemed to resonate in the empty corridor, only accompanied by their heavy breathing and the decreasing pitter-patter of Ghost’s claws hitting the stoned floor. Then, after a moment of complete silence, Jon raised the eyes he had kept lowered back on her, and his entire body visibly relaxed.

He even lifted one corner of his mouth to a small smile. “Are you alright?” he gently inquired.

And somehow the whole picture of it made her eyes glisten the same way his previous words did. He had a way with her that would scare her would he be anyone else. He was capable, with one gentle word, one kind thought, to drain all her anger, all selfishness from her. She shouldn’t feel heartbroken about the situation. Her brother was in love – because he was, there was to be no doubt about that – this should be cause for celebration and happiness, not wistfulness and fright. He held her hands, he said sweet things to her, he called her ‘my queen’. This was a chance, that he could fall in love with the woman he was supposed to marry.

And if it left a bitter taste in her mouth, well, she would have to fake ignorance until she achieved it. Jon didn’t have to know.

“I am,” she assured him, hoping her voice wasn’t quavering too much. He’d attribute it to the cold or the tears in her eyes, she reassured herself, quickly brushing away any that might have fallen. “I’m tired, that’s all. And it’s probably the sewing too – it always strains my eyes if I’m at it for too long.”

Which would be the case, if she had actually spent the last few hours working instead of looking at him.

“Where did Ghost go?” she asked after a moment of silence, as they had both been lost in their thoughts as they started walking back to her chambers.

“I sent him to the kitchens,” Jon waved a hand dismissively. “Given the size of it, you’ll probably have to eat hare for the next few meals.”

“I don’t know if… I mean the hunts will grow scarce and it’s probably the last good piece of meat that we’ll have in a long time.”

“He hunted it for you,” he pointed out, nearly insisting, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes.

“It’s decided then, if it’s alright with you,” she agreed, linking her arm to his, like they were sealing a pact. She heard him take a sharp intake of breath, but he didn’t dislodge her arm, didn’t pat her hand dismissively, didn’t comment on it, so she figured that it wasn’t bothering him.

After a few steps, he even bent his arm and she let out a contented sigh, covered by him clearing his throat, as his body heat warmed her tucked hand. Jon seemed to always radiate heat when she was close enough to feel it and, in the cold of the night, it was tempting to just press herself against him.

Of course, the dragon queen would love him.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” He had asked in a hoarser voice – just before he cleared his throat – and it only occurred to her that he might expect an answer. It took her a few seconds to recall what the conversation was about.

“He’s yours.”

“Ah but I’ve been away a long time. Perhaps now he prefers your company to mine and seeks to please you first.”

“He’d never!” She immediately protested, internally wincing at the turn the conversation was taking.

“Are you saying Ghost doesn’t have good manners?”

“I-” She stopped when she finally took a look at his face, and realized he was teasing her. She made a point of rolling her eyes, but the desired effect was lost when she couldn’t stop chuckling instead of huffing. “That wasn’t a very good joke.”

“I can see that,” he said as they walked around a corner, their smiles lessening as they passed by a couple of guards who looked at them strangely, surely because they could hear us joke like children in the middle of the night, Sansa thought guiltily, suddenly mindful of the sleeping people they might have woken up.

Jon seemed to share her thought, for they went across the hallway in a hurry and in silence, huddled close together to fight back the cold.

There was no time for conversations about trivial matters, she reminded herself. There was, however, the time for important ones – and precisely the most important one she thought about this evening. Sansa pulled herself together and, after having chosen her words and making sure her voice would sound even, spoke the dreaded but necessary words in a light tone. “Anyway, I’ve been thinking that we could marry at the same time. I don’t think we could withstand two feasts in a short period of time, especially if-”

Jon whirled around, his eyes wide open, the movement tugging her by their linked arms so close to him they were practically touching from chest to knee. Their sudden proximity silenced both her words and every thought she might have had, and she was suddenly aware of everything of him. The way the light turned his eyes practically dark, to contrast with how pale his skin looked, the way his nostrils nearly flared – she couldn’t think of a better fitting word at the moment – and his mouth twisted to show a hint of his teeth.

“Who?” he snarled, his voice breaking in the middle of the sound, and the second question sounded more like a frantic whisper than an angry growl. “Who do you want to marry, Sansa?”

His eyes turned pleading, and he grabbed her other arm, the one that wasn’t still tucked with his, his hand wide and as hot as if he was directly touching her skin, without the leather of his glove and the wool of her dress as a barrier. It was this thought that scared her, not than his attitude. Her voice, when she answered, did not sound composed anymore, “Tyrion.”

Jon, her brother, backed away from her, snatching his arm from her own grip, leaving her alone and cold. “No,” he growled. His eyes were still intent on her face, probably witnessing the contradict reaction that instilled in her, a buried part relieved that was his answer, another stunned about it.

“No?” Even her voice oscillated between the two.

He precipitately shook his head, “You don’t want to marry him. You can’t.”

She blinked slowly at him, once, twice. She felt that her next words would be the ones to throw her down the cliff, and him with her. “It’s not about what I want,” she croaked, “it’s what honor demands.” She told him, then, about the fact that Tyrion Lannister was the only lord she could marry, that it was alright with her, that she would do her duty, that he was a decent husband, all things considered.

“I won’t let you settle for a _decent_ husband!” He seethed, talking between his clenched teeth, his tone almost warning.

“It’s what I want!” What else did he think she hoped for? After marrying a monster, nearly two, decency was good, it was safe.

“Its not!” He shot her a look of utter betrayal. “You want happiness and- and love and all those pretty things you dreamt of, when you were a child.”

She reciprocated his look, anger filling her heart and making her choke on her own voice as tears threatened to spill on her cheeks. _Why do you say that?_ She wanted to ask. _Why do you remember?_ “I was a little girl. A silly, stupid little girl, who’s only there for a good laugh.”

“What?”

“But it’s alright, I don’t hold it against you,” she said, barely aware that he had interrupted her, her voice turning hoarse as she tried to restrain her sobbing. “It’s not like you were the only one, anyway.” She could still hear the laughs of the noblemen and women of King’s Landing, Cersei’s, Joffrey’s, Ramsay’s, mixing now with her siblings’. _We used to make fun of Sansa all the time, and you_ always _laughed!_

That cacophony of laughs in her head was the last straw to her attempt at composure so, in order to save the last bits of pride she had left, she stormed off to the stairs. She climbed the steps not as quickly as she would have liked, her vision too blurry to walk properly without falling and breaking her neck, and Jon was at her heels after only a moment, having caught up with her.

“Sansa, wait!” He called out, but she stubbornly kept on. She didn’t want to stop, for he would want her to explain and she wasn’t sure herself what exactly had come to her, to tell him that. Those stairs were close to her chambers, and Brienne was sleeping near, she would come outside should she hear a ruffle, and then Sansa could think of an excuse to send the both of them away. “I don’t- What are you talking about?”

She felt him get past her as soon as she stepped away from the stairs and so she ducked her head to brush her tears away, wishing she had thought of taking gloves as she had to wipe her hands on her dress in a very inelegant gesture, instead of letting the leather take it. Jon turned around once he was in front of her, a decided look on his face that wavered when he took on her distraught one. “Sansa,” he softly repeated, his hands hovering between them as if he had no idea what to do with them. “Sansa, I never thought… that.”

She made a shaky derisive sound, “You used to laugh, though. Arya and Bran just said so, you don’t have to deny it,” she added when it looked like he was about to protest. “As I said, it’s alright. Now, I really am tired, so if you’re quite finished…”

“I’m not. Sansa, that was years ago – we were all children. I laughed at japes made at you, just like I did to Robb, or Greyjoy, or even Arya. To everyone. Just like you did, too! Don’t tell me you’ve never made fun of me, or of anyone else.”

“You’re right,” she admitted, shame lightly coloring her cheeks.

“But,” he paused and swallowed thickly, “for what it’s worth, I’m not now. I don’t want you to marry him.”

She frowned, rubbing her hands together as the subject of their impending marriages made her shudder with dread. “Why?”

“Because he’s Tyrion Lannister.”

“You told me that he was your friend, before you left,” she pointed out to him, resuming walking to her door. “You two were akin, remember? _All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes_ , or something.”

“Exactly. I promised that I’d protect you, it’s certainly not to let you marry him. He doesn’t deserve you. He’s a bitter old man, and a drunk, and a kinslayer, and he frequents brothels and is obsessed with revenge. And… and… your lady mother would never have agreed to it!”

She chuckled despite herself, puzzled. “My mother?”

“She wanted the best for you, and the best is who you shall have.”

 _Not everyone gets to be as lucky as Daenerys Targaryen_ , she thought with a pan in her chest. “Yet, I think you just described the majority of the men in Westeros,” she sighed as she stopped in front of her door, turning to face him. “If I don’t marry him, I don’t think the lords would agree to let you marry the dragon queen.”

“There won’t be any wedding – neither yours nor mine. The war is upon us, there’s no time for any of that.”

She smiled a little as relief washed over her. “And what about after?”

He took a step closer, his eyes soft and intent all at once, and she felt warmth timidly flow back in her body. “After…” he repeated, his voice raspy. He came nearer and nearer, his brows slightly furrowed, until they mimicked the position they found themselves earlier, pressed against each other. until she had forgotten all about her question. The heat of him made her shiver slightly, though she did not feel the cold anymore.

Still, he felt it, and mistook it for something it wasn’t because he instantly backed away, muttering an apology. Except this time, Sansa grabbed his hands, keeping him close.

He looked down at their clasped hands, and so she did the same. Her breathing quickened as he moved his, so he could gently rub warmth into her bare skin, the feel of the leather gloves freezing her even more than she already was at first before the motion reached its desired effect and the leather warmed in time with her hands. She still found herself wishing the gloves would simply disappear. After all, she was certain his skin was even warmer when it was not hidden beneath the material, and that would allow her to cool his otherwise burning touch.

She twisted her hands in his grasp, so that the back of them would now benefit from being pressed against his entire palm, and not by the constant strokes of his thumb. Yet, as soon as she did that, the motion made her wince in pain and it immediately stilled. She sighed longingly, already regretful that the nice moment was over, but he didn’t let her go.

“What happened?”

She narrowed her eyes, barely making out the tiny colored spots dotting her right hand and the fingers of her left, the result of her fighting back tears over her concerns by squeezing a needle with all her strength. “Feelings,” she simply answered, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

The corner of Jon’s mouth quirked up. “Aye, those…” he breathed, tilting his head on one side. At this instant, Sansa believed he was going to kiss her, the thought making her wet her lips and leaving them parted, ready to be caught by his. She watched him look down at them, his tongue mirroring the motion. 

The moment quickly disappeared, however, flying away before she could realize that she couldn’t think of… her brother doing this to her.

Still, it left her nearly breathless, her head spinning, his name ready to leave her lips as she watched him raise her hands to his mouth. He pressed a kiss first to the palm of her right hand, and then to the tip of her left fingers where the worst of the bruises were. His eyes never left hers, his beard and whiskers scratching deliciously against her tender skin, making her insides twist in the most pleasant of way.

“It’s getting late, my-” he interrupted himself, and she saw the change, the realization of their actions occur in his eyes. He quickly let go of her hands and took several steps back as if she was the one who had burned him while the color drained off his face.

Her heart lurched in her throat as a sudden flow of panic threatened to submerge her and twist and snatch away what had just happened. “You can say it! Please Jon, I… I don’t mind.”

He returned her gaze and, slowly, as he saw for himself that she spoke the truth, his posture lost the most of its hesitancy. He sighed longingly, murmured “Should Ghost comes this night, don’t let him in, my love,” bowed his head and left her, leaning on her door as she understood _why_ and as the memory of his kiss etched itself on her hands and of his last word on her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the end!  
> So yeah, I should start to know myself, saying I cut the last part of the story in 2 "approximately" and ending with this last chapter having about 2 000 words more than the previous. I hope you enjoyed it anyway! xD
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading, and kudoing and commenting and coming back for every chapter (or just reading it in one go, now).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Don’t hesitate to tell me what you thought of this!


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